


Old Time is Still A-Flying

by ModernDayBard



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 13:39:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: Re-posted from my FF account--not stolen.Todd Anderson never forgot. But what did that mean for the man he would become? (One-shot Inspired by Dead Poets Society. Contains brief language and themes of suicide, but then, so does the movie.)





	Old Time is Still A-Flying

**_“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,_ **

**_The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,_ **

**_The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,_ **

**_While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;_ **

**_But O heart! heart! heart!_ **

**_O the bleeding drops of red,_ **

**_Where on the deck my Captain lies,_ **

**_Fallen cold and dead.”_ **

**_(Walt Whitman)_ **

* * *

He never forgot Neil Perry.

With a statement like that, and has close as they’d been, one would’ve expected him to name his first son Neil. That would have been right—wouldn’t it? Yes, it would have been right; and it would have been right that the second Neil would have the same passion for life, the same penchant for the stage, even, that his namesake had had. Then it would’ve been like Neil had been born into a second life, this time with a father who would support his choices, listen to his opinions; one who would applaud loudest of all as his son stood triumphant, playing Puck once more.

But Todd Anderson never married and he never had a son, named Neil or otherwise.  Oh, in his life, he met many ‘Neil’s—in name or personality—but they were never his son, nor did he ever share with them the brother-like bond he’d had with the first Neil.

* * *

**_“Do not stand at my grave and weep,_ **

**_I am not there, I do not sleep._ **

**_I am a thousand winds that blow._ **

**_I am the diamond glint on snow._ **

**_..._ **

**_Do not stand at my grave and cry._ **

**_I am not there, I did not die!”_ **

**_(Mary Fyre)_ **

* * *

He never forgot Mr. Keating.

With a statement like that, one would’ve expected him to follow his teacher, or to have sought him out. That would’ve been right—wouldn’t it? Yes, it would have been right; and it would’ve been right for him to find the man who’d taught him more than poetry, who’d unlocked a timid voice and replaced it with a ‘barbaric yawp’ and to have sat at his feet—literally or figuratively—learning everything else that John Keating could’ve poured into an eager, free, young, open mind.

But Todd Anderson never saw Mr. Keating again. Oh, he followed in his footsteps, completing his education after being expelled from Wellton, receiving his degree and teaching English in any high school that would have him—but with a special passion for boys’ prep schools. A part of him had hoped that his chosen path would lead him back to the man to whom he owed so much, but it never did. And he never was able to learn what happened to John Keating since the last time he saw him leave the Wellton English classroom. 

* * *

**_“An honest man here lies at rest,_ **

**_The friend of man, the friend of truth,_ **

**_The friend of age, and guide of youth:_ **

**_Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,_ **

**_Few heads with knowledge so inform'd;_ **

**_If there's another world, he lives in bliss;_ **

**_If there is none, he made the best of this.”_ **

**_(Robert Burns)_ **

* * *

He never forgot the Dead Poets’ Society.

With a statement like _that_ , one would’ve expected him to implement a similar group in every school he taught at, echoing the rousing speeches of Keating and Neil, leaving behind him awed, free-thinking disciples. That would’ve been right—wouldn’t it? Yes, it would have been right; and it would have been right for the passion that his year at Wellton had awakened in him to manifest in a similar manner to that of the two men he admired—learned from—the most. He’d learned the power of words, after all, and to trust the words inside his mind. It was only fitting that he would pass it on in much the same way he had received it.

But Todd Anderson never gave rousing speeches. Oh, he was a good teacher—one who cared about his students as much as Mr. Keating had—and he never lost the passion that Neil had worked so hard to get him to feel. But Todd had always been a quieter man, and his teaching style—his leading style—was that of a quiet, gentle push in the right direction. It was always there, egging his students to discover the minds that they had, to unlock the poets in themselves, to speak up—be it an eloquent verse or the confused, rambling, ‘barbaric yawp’ he himself had begun with—chipping away at the rigid establishment. But there was no one who called him ‘Captain, my Captain.’

* * *

**_“If I can stop one heart from breaking,_ **

**_I shall not live in vain;_ **

**_If I can ease one life the aching,_ **

**_Or cool one pain,_ **

**_Or help one fainting robin_ **

**_Unto his nest again,_ **

**_I shall not live in vain.”_ **

**_(Emily Dickinson)_ **

* * *

“Mr. Anderson?”

Todd looked up at the young hesitant voice to see one of his older students—one of the boys in the senior class—standing on his doorstep. “Come in, Isaac,” he said, gesturing to an empty chair by his desk. “Is there something I can help with?”

“I don’t think so,” the blonde-haired young man answered honestly as he sat. “But you said if we ever needed to talk...”

Todd nodded, turning so that he faced the tall, thin boy. Isaac had his full attention, never the open book lying on his desk, and there would be no way the senior could mistake that fact. “Yes, I did. Is something the matter, then?”

Isaac hesitated, seemingly at a loss for words. Todd had never seen the boy so quiet—normally he was the most outspoken in the class. Finally though, he spoke. “It-It’s my father. He wants me to go to his alma mater, graduate with honors, and take over the family business, just like he did.”

“And you don’t want to,” Todd observed, beginning to recognize the haunted, trapped look in the normally life-filled green eyes.

“I’d rather _die_ ,” the boy insisted, missing the way his teacher flinched at his declaration in his sudden rush to explain his position. “I don’t want to spend my life surrounded by that world—that’s not _me_. I want to be a writer—I want to write poems and stories and articles—I want my words, my work, my _life_ to mean something—to have made a difference. And I can’t think of a worse fate than having to give that up to spend my whole life trapped behind some desk, always crunching numbers for a business I don’t give a _shit_ about that ultimately will have no impact on the world beyond a profit margin and a crappy product!”

The boy suddenly faltered to a stop as his teacher leaned forward, surprised by a fierce light in the older man’s eyes. “Have you told your father this?” Isaac shook his head mutely, still shocked by the transformation that the normally-quiet Mr. Anderson seemed to have gone through. “Then, Mr. Thompson, _that_ is where you must begin!”

“I can’t!” Isaac burst out. “Mr. Anderson you don’t know my father. He doesn’t listen to me—”

Todd stretched out a comforting hand to the young boy, knowing that his word choice in the next few moments was nothing short of crucial. “Isaac Thompson, whenever you speak to your father on a matter of importance, do you use the same words and passion you were just using to explain to _me_ what you thought of all this?” Isaac shook his head, just as Todd had expected. “You must. You must _make_ him listen. You just told me that you wanted your words to mean something, to have an impact. Let them have that impact _now_. Don’t hold them inside until it’s too late.”

“What if he listens, but he still doesn’t care?” Isaac’s voice was weaker now—a child’s terrified tremor, barely more than a whisper.

Todd had to close his eyes, realizing that, in Isaac’s mind now, there was a very real possibility that the family business mattered more to his father than _he_ did. But Todd had met Mr. Thompson when the man had dropped his son off at the start of semester, and had seen what Isaac had not—the long, proud look the businessman had given his son after the boy had run off to greet his friends once more. It was yet another case of a man who loved his son but showed it through an inexorable determination that _his_ plan play out. It was a too-familiar story, but Todd Anderson was determined it not unfold the same. “ _If_ that is the case,” he said at last, stressing the qualifier heavily, “then he is not only rigid, but blind and deaf as well.”

Isaac didn’t seem convinced, but the teacher pressed on. “Isaac, there isn’t a student or teacher here that can miss the passion and fire—the _life_ —that you embody. It pours out of you and into anyone who hears you, inspiring them to follow. When you are around your father, however, you try to bottle it up. You tamp it down to try to please him, but that can’t last. Let it out, let him see the you that you are before you suffocate yourself and lose yourself. Because if you lose sight of that life...” Todd Anderson’s voice trailed off as the figure before him blurred, sometimes blonde-haired and green-eyes, sometimes brown-haired and brown-eyed. The final few words came out in a voice barely above a whisper, in a heartbroken tone that finally managed to cut through the teen’s panic: “...then you will have further to fall than anybody else, and the impact will crush you more.”

Isaac stared in awe at the older man before him—caught off-guard and all but held captive by the transformation the mild man seemed to have gone through. Todd, for his part, had finally let his gaze drop. There were times he got like that—the times he felt the most like Neil or Keating—times that the ‘barbaric yawp’ returned. Normally, he had little clue where the words came from, much like his bewildered state after Mr. Keating had first gotten him to vocalize his internal rambling. This time, however, he _knew_. These words had been in his mind since he was seventeen, and he’d been editing, tweaking them ever since. They were sincere, and unrehearsed, but it was the same chorus that’d sprung into his head on that freezing winter day he’d gone running off, away from what remained of the Dad Poet’s Society, wild with grief over his friend’s death—all the things he wish that he had said in time.

“Tell him,” He continued in that same quiet tone, finally returning his gaze to Isaac’s, “and if he still does not listen, no matter what you feel like, you come to me before you do anything else. Will you promise me that?”

The student met his teacher’s gaze, unsure if he was frightened, comforted, surprised, or inspired, but he knew what his response would be. “I promise, Mr. Anderson.”

With that, he stood and turned to go, but upon reaching the door, he turned back, and Todd saw that the familiar fire was back in those green eyes. “I promise, but it won’t be necessary. ‘Cause I’m goin to make him hear me this time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Todd replied, watching the departing figure. “And Isaac?” The boy turned back, halfway into the hall. “ _Carpe Diem_ ,” His teacher called, and the boy raised his fist in salute.

“ _Carpe Diem!_ ” He responded in kind.

* * *

**_“The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?_ **

**Answer.**

**_That you are here—that life exists and identity,_ **

**_That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”_ **

**_(Walt Whitman)_ **

* * *

It was several hours later that Todd entered the study of his own home. He’d delayed leaving his office for more than one reason.  First, he’d waited, a part of him wondering if Isaac would return that night. But that was unlikely. Even if Isaac spoke to his father that night (which the teacher thought unlikely—as well as he could remember, Mr. Thompson was on a business trip and not due to return to town until the following evening), then whatever the fall out, the boy would likely spend the night at home before returning to school. It was that scenario that frightened Todd the most, as much as he had confidence in Isaac’s determination and ability to make his father hear, and as much as he truly believed Mr. Thompson would listen, and it was that scenario that kept in the office, hoping against hope.

But, in truth, he would have been there anyway. He periodically worked late, as Mr. Keating had often done, but there was one day in early December that always found him lingering beyond his normal hours. He never slept that day, always waiting until after midnight to even attempt to rest, and even then not often succeeding, even after all those years.

But here he was, at home at last, and he found himself crossing to the window, standing still and staring out. He didn’t see the vista before him—the snowed-over woods. Instead, two images fought for his attention: one, a tall, brown-haired young man in an admittedly silly-looking costume (complete with a bird’s nest for a hat) standing on a high school stage—only he wasn’t standing still, but constantly on the move as he embodied the life of himself and his character both; the other an empty, cold, unfeeling plain outside of Wellton, with the sensation of uncaring snow caking him every time he fell, running away from his friends.

Cruelly, as the years went on, the first image because harder and harder to remember, but the second only grew in clarity, along with the horror and grief it entailed. For most of the year, he could focus on his work, his students, or his passions, and painful memories would fade. But this was the one night of the year they would not be denied, and he’d eventually developed a ritual that acknowledged them even while focusing on the happier times just before.

He’d left his copy of _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ on his desk in his office, forgotten in the wake of Isaac’s entrance, but by now he no longer needed it. Still staring out the window, willing the first image to come more clearly to mind, Todd Anderson began to recite the lines he knew now by heart.

_“Thou speakest aright;_

_I am that merry wanderer of the night._

_I jest to Oberon, and make him smile_

_When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,_

_Neighing in likeness of a filly foal;_

_And sometimes lurk I in the gossip’s bowl_

_In the very likeness of a roasted crab,_

_And when she drinks, against her lips I bob_

_And on her withered dewlap pour the ale._

_The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,_

_Sometimes for a three-foot stool mistaketh me;_

_Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,_

_And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough;_

_And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe,_

_And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear_

_A merrier hour was never waster there._

_But room, fairy! Here comes Oberon.”_

He spoke the sprite’s introduction with all the inflection, passion, and fun he could master, knowing he did it nowhere near so well as Neil had done that night so many years before. Still, he did his best to pray tribute to that moment—the moments on stage when Neil, already so full of life, had let himself truly _live_ in a way he never had before, not even in the Poet’s cave.

Speaking of the cave...

_“I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck all the marrow out of life. To put to rout all that was not life, and not when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.”_

And he had. Neil _had_ lived. But maybe that was the problem—so soon after reaching a new pinnacle in his life, with only a few short hours of having so many beautiful dreams that they tumbled over themselves, to have them all taken away, trampled underfoot and coldly dismissed—Neil had fallen, and fallen hard. So much so that he’d rather have died than to not live deliberately.

Years before, Todd would have paused here in the ritual, weakly asking the friend who could no longer hear him, “But wasn’t there a way to keep living deliberately through all of it? At a different school, in med school, couldn’t you still have seized the day?” But now he knew there would be no answer, no reply to the question, and he simple moved to the final quote—the monologue he’d always thought of as Puck’s _true_ farewell. Not the epilogue, which Neil had tried so hard to turn into an apology to his father, but his last extended speech in which he was truly himself—In Todd’s mind, these would always be Neil’s last words.

_“Now the hungry lion roars,_

_And the wolf behowls the moon;_

_Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,_

_All with weary task fordone._

_Now the wasted bands do glow,_

_Whilst the screech owl, screeching loud,_

_Puts the wretch that lies in woe_

_In remembrance of a shroud._

_Now it is the time of night_

_That the graves, all gaping wide,_

_Every one lets forth his sprite,_

_In the chruchways path to glide;_

_And we fairies, that do run_

_By the triple Hecate’s team_

_From the presence of the sun,_

_Following darkness like a dream,_

_Now are frolic. Not a mouse_

_Shall disturb this hallowed house._

_I am sent, with broom, before,_

_To sweep the dust behind the door.”_

Todd then fell silent, still staring out, lost in memories and worries alike. At long last he heard the clock strike twelve and slowly turned away, bound for bed. For just a moment though, he thought he heard a long-lost, young voice call yet another quote to him, as if it were a promise.

_“Jack shall have Jill;_

_Naught shall go ill;_

_The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.”_

And, somehow, it was.

* * *

**_“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,_ **

**_Old Time is still a-flying:_ **

**_And this same flower that smiles to-day_ **

**_To-morrow will be dying.”_ **

**_(Robert Herrick)_ **


End file.
